Royal Intervention
by Lalaith Quetzalli
Summary: (One Shot) John waited days for Mycroft to do something, to save Sherlock, and when the oldest Holmes declared his power, his contacts just weren't enough, John decided it was his turn. There are a few favors he's owed and one just might help him get what he wants... (Begins at the tarmac) HLV Fix-It - Can be seen as Gen or Pre-Slash.


I don't own Sherlock (not the original novels, the tv series, and certainly not the characters... I only wish). So, having said what we all already knew, lets get on with things.

This is my first attempt at writing SherlockBBC, and Johnlock (though, once I got in the first, I couldn't write any pairing but that one).

From the moment I finished watching the series (I arrived a little late to the fandom) I knew I needed to write a fix-it. In the end, instead of writing just one I got all these ideas, so the series was born. While some might share background details, each story is completely independent from the others. I still hope you will read and like them all.

I have no beta, and am certainly not British, so any mistakes you see are my own.

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 **Royal Intervention**

" _I swear I will always be there. Always." SH_

The car (dark, government vehicle) bearing John Watson to the private airport that morning arrived just as planned, stopping just a few yards away from where the small private plane meant to take Sherlock Holmes away waited. However, it took no time at all for those waiting to realize that something was decidedly off. Mary Watson, John's wife of six months wasn't with him. Still, that did not stop the doctor and former army man from stepping off the car and silently walking to where the Holmes brothers stood.

John faced Mycroft first though, to the younger Holmes's surprise, not a word was said, no greeting, not even an acknowledgement. Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective extraordinaire, wanted nothing more than to ask what was going on, what was making his best (only) friend act so passive-aggressive, however, there was really no time for deductions and such, he was lucky enough he'd been allowed to have a moment to say goodbye (he suspected a few people wouldn't have minded simply sending him away without even that); but in the end Mycroft had managed to secure that much at least...

"Since this is likely to be the last conversation I'll have with John Watson... would you mind if we took a moment?"

John made a somewhat pained sound at Sherlock's choice of words, but otherwise remained quiet as Mycroft and the security man lingering around stepped away to give the two other men some semblance of privacy.

"Mary...?" Sherlock blurted out suddenly.

It wasn't what he was planning to say, not at all. Their time was short and he still had to make sure John would be alright, that he wouldn't suffer, like he had when Sherlock so thoughtlessly made him watch his fall, not realizing the kind of pain that would bring John (and himself) until it was far too late already. And yet he needed to know, after everything that had happened, everything he'd done... granted, he hadn't actually killed Magnussen in cold blood for Mary (or-whatever-her-real-name-might-be), that was just what he'd told John, because telling the other man that Sherlock had done it all for him, was sacrificing everything for him... was likely to be more than John could take. John didn't realize how much Sherlock cared for him... how much he loved him... he probably wouldn't be able to take it. And in any case, John was a married man, with a child on the way and... and where the hell was Mary?!

"Right..." John cleared his throat a bit, as if uncomfortable. "Things are... a bit not good on that front, I'm afraid."

Sherlock wasn't expecting that. Was John still angry with Mary? The detective had been so sure his friend had bought everything they'd discussed during the months they spent back in 221B, John nursing Sherlock back to health... even the flat-out lie about the 'former' assassin shooting him to save him...

Or had it been Mary who caused the problem? Maybe John had waited too long before going back to her, maybe Sherlock should have sent him back earlier... if he'd just been able to push his selfishness back long enough to do so... but he'd known he would be losing his best-friend. No matter how things ended with Magnussen. A wife, children, a house in the suburbs... it was the perfect future John had always sought, and he'd found it with Mary... and Sherlock just didn't fit in that life. Which was why when John (probably feeling some kind of friendly obligation) chose to stay with him, to take care of him, Sherlock didn't send him away as soon as he was sure he would be able to recover fully on his own... he'd just been so afraid of the moment when John would leave, never to come back. Oh, he was sure John would have tried. Would have wanted to hang around for a while, to still go to cases sometimes, but eventually his new life would have taken over, leaving no space for the old one... no space for Sherlock. The detective had delayed that goodbye for as long as he could... perhaps too long.

"I don't know what will happen with us now, what we'll do... if anything can even be done..." John murmured quietly, before shaking his head almost harshly. "But that's not really the point right now, sorry." He cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Mycroft told me you were leaving today and... well..." He let out a breath before finally looking straight at Sherlock. "I'm actually not sure what I should be saying right now."

"I don't know either." Sherlock admitted quietly.

A part of him wondered if he should be apologizing for the state of things with Mary, but John had already said they wouldn't be talking about that... and he didn't really want to. In fact, if he weren't about to be shipped off to his death he probably would be quite interested in other things regarding his dear friend... but it was useless thinking about such things.

"So what about you, then?" The doctor asked after what seemed like forever. "Where are you actually going now?"

"Oh, some undercover work in Eastern Europe." The detective replied, making it sound boring (better that than showing his nervousness, his very real fear).

"For how long?" John inquired quietly.

"Six months, my brother estimates." Sherlock answered easily, though he wouldn't meet John's eyes. "He's never wrong."

"And then what?" John pressed.

Sherlock met his eyes for a moment, just for a second, but it was enough for John to feel like he was almost drowning in so many clashing emotions. There were things Sherlock wasn't telling him, he knew that much, even if he hadn't the slightest idea of what exactly his friend was hiding this time. He still could guess it wasn't good, he wanted to ask, to demand explanations, the truth, but knew it wasn't the time or place, they would get to that later, in good time... and there would be time, he would make sure of it.

"Who knows?" Sherlock shrugged, managing to pull his mask back together, somehow.

For several seconds not a word was said, as the two men stood there, almost taking turns looking at each other, while the other's eyes were focused elsewhere.

"John, there's something... I should say." Sherlock was speaking again before he was fully conscious of it. "I... I've meant to say always and then never have. Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now..."

John had no idea what Sherlock intended to say, wasn't sure even the detective himself knew, judging by his own expression even as the words tumbled out of his mouth (the doctor had never seen him like that in the years they'd known each other). He just stood there, waiting, and yet, right as Sherlock opened his mouth again...

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called abruptly. "It's time."

"Just give me one minute." Sherlock called back, eyes never straying away from John, even as his mask began pealing away.

John could only stare at him, fists tight to keep himself from reaching for the taller man, from embracing him and... why the hell did Mycroft have to interrupt them?!

"I'm afraid I cannot, Sherlock." Mycroft said stoically. "You need to go now. You know that. There's nothing I can do..."

John gritted his teeth as he remembered all the times he had heard those same five words in the last week, whenever he'd tried to convince Mycroft to do something to protect Sherlock... John Watson would never understand how a man with the power they knew the older Holmes possessed couldn't do something to protect his little brother... no, truth was, John didn't believe Mycroft when he said he couldn't do anything. It was more like he'd rather not, for whatever the reason. Well, John wasn't so inclined!

Before any of the three men could insist on one thing or the other, they were interrupted by the arrival of a third black car. A man in a crisp white shirt, black tie, a two-piece black suit, shiny shoes and sunglasses stepped off the card. He didn't say a word, looked at no one at all, walking straight to Sherlock Holmes.

"Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes?" The man asked in a deep tone.

"That's me, yes." Sherlock nodded, unable to fully hide his shock at the man's presence.

The new arrival didn't say anything else, he simply pulled a single off-white envelope from the inside of his jacket, before handing it to the detective.

"Have a good day sir." He added, before turning around and walking away.

Sherlock watched him walk away, even as a part of him processed the fact that the envelope in his hand wasn't any mere letter, it was expensive, elegant stationary, with a wax seal in the back; he was just about to turn his eyes to it, when he noticed something else. It was just a moment, but he was quite sure the messenger had turned his eyes in the direction of none other than John Watson before nodding his head respectfully, a gesture the former army-doctor returned. The man had ignored everyone present, even Mycroft, and then he nodded at John Watson? Just what was going on?!

Mycroft, who's expression showed honest confusion for the first time since the doctor knew him (probably the first time in his life) was about to demand an explanation when his own assistant (who the doctor still knew by no other name than Anthea) hurriedly got out of another of the cars and rushed to her boss.

"Mr. Holmes sir!" She called, her tone of voice higher than anyone had ever heard it before, showing just how rattled she was by whatever was going on.

"What is it?" Mycroft turned to her, recognizing that something serious must be going on.

"Someone from Parliament just called sir, the mission's been called off." She announced.

Mycroft's eyes widened almost imperceptibly and he opened his mouth, though no words came out, it was like he wasn't quite sure what to say...

Sherlock's quiet breath (which, in a lesser man, would have been called a gasp), pulled everyone's attention in his direction. In one hand he was holding the opened envelope, and in the other the letter that had been inside, both bore the same seal, the royal seal...

"Sherlock...?" Mycroft called, voice noticeably strained.

"I've been pardoned." Sherlock said in quiet disbelief.

"You've been issued a royal pardon?" Mycroft inquired.

"Yes." Sherlock nodded, eyes still fixed straight on the letter.

Usually neither brother was fond of repetition, though maybe some news just required such, either than or the whole situation was so shocking it needed to be stated more than once in order for everyone to believe it was really happening. Sherlock wasn't going on a suicide mission to Eastern Europe anymore... and not only that, he'd been granted a royal pardon for the murder of Augustus Magnussen...

How...? While he had served the crown in some form or other several times since first becoming a consulting detective, he didn't think that was it (had it been, he wouldn't have been left in that cell for a week, the pardon arriving until the very last moment...); no, something else was going on, and he had no idea what, unless... his head raised automatically, two sets of eyes meeting, John was looking straight at him and in that moment Sherlock knew without a doubt (and without a single piece of evidence) that his best (only, dearest) friend was somehow responsible for the miracle he held in his hands. John Watson had gotten him a royal pardon... how?! In the end, the question remained. He would have asked, but Sherlock was quite sure his brother hadn't seen the small exchange between John and the messenger, and he didn't want Mycroft to know, so he chose to leave that conversation for later... because there would be a later, and Sherlock had never felt so blessed... the closest was the moment when John had asked him to be his best-man, when he'd called Sherlock his best friend...

"So... I guess that means you're not going after all?" John half-stated, half-asked.

"That is correct." Sherlock murmured, trying to adopt his usual tone, though he was still feeling too much to remain fully blank.

"Ah..." John seemed to hesitate a moment more before finally asking. "Shall we go then?"

Sherlock didn't answer, instead turning to Mycroft. While he could see the Royal Pardon in his hands, he wasn't quite sure what was supposed to happen next.

"Go." Mycroft said simply. "Parliament has ordered the mission canceled." He turned around, looking over his shoulder after a couple of steps. "I would stay away from any suspicious deaths, your work notwithstanding, just in case..."

Because depending how badly MI6 wanted him in that mission, they might take any excuse they could find to send him... not like Sherlock was interested in killing anyone. And if it became necessary... it wasn't like he regretted Magnussen anyway, or the consequences his choice would have brought. Though he was certainly grateful to have been given a way out... even if he still wasn't fully sure how it had happened. He would need to ask John... maybe in a day or two he could ask the doctor over to 221B or something, hopefully Mary wouldn't make a problem out of a short visit or anything...

Sherlock's line of thought was diverted as John guided him into the waiting car.

"Lets go home." The doctor said as he closed the door.

Sherlock blinked, his brain running in several directions at the same time, trying to deduce which home he was talking about, exactly.

"Mary..." Was the only thing he managed to blurt out in the end (the events of the last few minutes really seemed to have put him off his game).

"Mary..." John repeated, he sounded suddenly tired. "That's a long story... can it wait until we get home? And maybe eat something. To be honest I've been so nervous I haven't eaten anything all day, didn't eat dinner last night either."

"Home...?" The detective asked next, still feeling terribly slow.

"221B of course." John said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Sherlock still didn't understand what was going on. Though he was absolutely sure something had, that it involved Mary... had she done something that made John decide not to forgive her after all? Had John done something that made her snap?... Well, the second at least was unlikely, from what little Sherlock had allowed Mycroft to tell him (he hadn't wanted to know too much, not wanting it to make his own interactions with the couple harder, and John might have noticed something), still, he knew enough to realize that if Mary were to snap, the results would be quite obvious, and nothing good for John, and probably not for Sherlock himself either.

He stopped the line of thought after that. He believed that John would explain, and then he would know what needed to be done, for the time being he would enjoying being in the company of his (dearest... only... best... more than...) friend.

Unknown to the consulting detective a myriad of thoughts kept running through the former army captain's mind, though they could all be resumed to three scenes, three pieces of his memory, which had lead to them being in that moment, in that car, on their way home...

 _Afghanistan was hot and dry, the polar opposite of London (which would later on help keep his PTSD in check, mostly). They weren't involved in gunfights every day... and he was still a medic. Even if he was cleared for field duty and had received a few positive comments for his skills as a sharp-shooter and levelheadedness under pressure. Most of the time he stayed a distance away from the action._

 _That day though... it all changed. The dry sand growing damp with blood, the very air around them beginning to reek with the metal scent that many of them connected to the life-giving fluid, so much John could almost feel the taste in the back of his mouth. And it didn't help that his own hands were warm, so warm, and so red... as he fought against time and probabilities and everything one could possibly imagine to keep the soldier before him alive._

 _The ambush had come out of nowhere, the area they were in was supposed to be secure, three men fell before anyone knew what was going on. The rest immediately rushed for cover, though it was almost too late. It had been mere luck that John happened to be behind that boy (and he ought to be called boy, the youngest of their group, so painfully young...) when he fell with a pained grunt, blood soon pooling under John and him both._

 _Sholto yelled at John twice to leave the boy and take cover, considering him a lost case already. But John refused to give up without a fight, the kid was still alive, and the captain would do his best to keep him that way. In the end he succeeded, though it was a victory that did not come without a cost... still, he believed it was worth it._

 _.o._

 _That day ended with a bullet in his shoulder, which was followed by an awful infection, fever, near-death. He had to be air-lifted to the base in Kandahar and later on to Germany for better treatment. John was in and out for what seemed like forever, before eventually recovering enough awareness to truly pay attention to his surroundings. It was then that he noticed the things on his bedside table: a single floral arrangement, pink roses, a black velvet case holding a Victoria Cross, as well as two other lesser medals for service. Though what called most of his attention was the second velvet case, smaller, dark blue, inside was a St. George's gold medal, resting over a card with a written 'Thank You' in elegant calligraphy and a wax-seal in place of a signature in the corner (he was still too out of it to make out the seal)._

The flowers had eventually wilted and been thrown away by hospital personnel, and he'd put away the medals. Though, almost as an afterthought, he'd slipped the chain holding St. George's medallion on, placing the 'thank you' card in his wallet. Even years later, the medals were still in the bottom of an old trunk, and the card behind the only picture he had of his mother, in his wallet, and he was quite sure Sherlock had never seen either (since he hadn't asked), and a lot of what had happened that day, of the person John had saved, had never made it into any reports, which explained why Mycroft didn't know anything...

Because, as he found out (though not until much later) John Watson, the average, plain, quite-forgettable military doctor had somehow ended up saving the life of the prince of England!

When John dialed the number he'd long memorized he hadn't known if it would work. He'd been told at the time to use that number if he ever needed anything... though there had been no way of knowing if 'anything' included saving Sherlock from the fate Parliament had sentenced him to (if the Holmes's brothers thought he didn't know the truth they didn't know him at all).

What mattered was that it had worked, Sherlock had been pardoned, and in that moment the two of them were safe and sound... and on their way home. So many things still needed to be sorted out, and they would be in due time. Time they would have, together... nothing else mattered.

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For this one I decided to leave Mary sort-of in the air. Though I'll warn you right now that while I was mostly alright with her character in the first two episodes of Season 3, the moment she shot Sherlock I loathed her. There are circumstances, fics I've read, where she seems acceptable (as long as she's not trying to keep John from Sherlock.

Also, I think it might be a good idea to warn you that I'm ambivalent on Mycroft, in some pieces he might seem a bastard, in others an overprotective brother, it'll depend on the circumstances.

Finally, the last warning. This fic was simple enough but from the next one on there will be connections to other fandoms, mostly light cameos, but sometimes actual crossovers (I promise you don't need to know any of the other fandoms to understand the stories) I just thought I just give you all a heads-up.

Now, I hope you liked this. And that you'll come back, the series will be updated every week (as long as I have new chapters). See ya around!


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